Daunting Silence
by ink and ashes
Summary: An inner war for acceptance lashed out in the wrong way, ending in a lover's spat that would finally give him the silence he always longed for. So now, it's that time of the year again; and the silence isn't as comforting as he thought it would be.


**Daunting Silence**

They all died. Dramatically.

His face was a stony, eerie mask of nothingness, betraying not even the slightest iota of emotion. His slender fingers ran over the keys, the clacking sounds being the only noise within the large abode. He wrote page after page of useless, sheer unromantic angst, killing the female protagonist—once again—unmercifully and deriving an unhealthy sort of pleasure as he killed off the undeserving love of said female protagonist; "ladies first" was a phrase he took to a whole new level, making this the fourth book in less than a year in which the lovers were forced to separate by death.

The reviews were always astoundingly good. Hmm.

His fingers stilled suddenly; this part was always the hardest to write in spite of the fact that the images were vividly clear. A muscle in his jaw twitch, a noticeable lump bobbing up and down in his throat. "Dammit. . ."

The fucking brat had come home, all smiles and loving eyes. He lived for those smiles, the blonde scoffed nastily at himself; the kid was turning him into a total sap. Bounding up to his ever-chilly lover, the hyperactive little man had thrown his arms around him and wrapped his legs around the writer's waist, landing a huge, sloppy kiss that made him want to tear apart every thread of clothing and take his genki lover right then and there. "We did it, Yuki!" He'd cried, his eyes glimmering beautifully. "We beat Nittle Grasper—we're the number one hit!"

Before he could respond, his lips were dominated by the pink-haired brat's once more, his happiness rolling off of him in waves.

"I wanna celebrate . . . with you." Shuichi's voice had been breathy and amorous, his hips moving deliberately against Eiri's as he took advantage of their position—were he not so light, the novelist would have probably dropped him a while ago. Leaning back in his arms, Shuichi unbuttoned the top few buttons, licking the blond's collarbone with slow, tantalizing strokes of his tongue; when Eiri did nothing, he nibbled on the oh-so-sensitive ear, hoping for a reaction.

Eiri dropped him.

"Itai!" He'd gotten up and rubbed his abused rear, grumbling that it had been bruised and _not_ for the reasons he'd wanted it to be. "Ne, Yuki, what'd I do?" He stood, pouting ferociously at his expressionless paramour—what was wrong with Yuki? Was he sick—tired? Concern took over and Shuichi stepped forward, pressing his hand to the taller man's forehead. "Yuki? Daijoubu?"

The blond slapped away his hand, scowling. "I'd be better if you weren't here."

Amethyst eyes trembled, that talented mouth of his opening and closing. "Nani? Ne, Yuki, wh—?"

"Just get out."

Shuichi didn't understand. "For whatever I did, Yuki, gomen! Gomen ne; I didn't mean it, onegai!"

This made him angrier for some reason. "Get the hell outta my house!"

That bottom lip trembled. "Yuki . . . you promised you'd never throw me out again . . . you _promised._"

"Promises are meant to be broken."

To this day, he had no idea what had possessed him to say that. The anger had boiled out of nowhere, disgust at himself for becoming so damn needy lashing out in the wrong way. After his lover had run away in tears, he'd returned to his room with a sigh, figuring he'd wait until Shuichi called—which he undoubtedly would—to try and make amends for his drastic, and severely misplaced aggravation. The boy would understand, although he wondered if his Shu-chan would be so willing to forgive this time.

Eiri never saw it coming—and neither, apparently, did Shu.

He _did_ receive a call that night pertaining to Shuichi; blinded by tears, the boy hadn't watched where he was going and became a window ornament for a passing bus. After an hour of trying to keep the miraculously-still-alive vocalist from death, the pink-haired singer had given up.

Nope. Eiri never saw it coming.

That muscle in his jaw ticking quicker than before, the blond's fingers went to work again, plowing through the grand finale with a masochistic vengeance. Fuck it—everyone was going to die. Even the aggrieving mother of the female protagonist. Even the distant, but still-loved-his-daughter father. Even the fucking cat next door that had stolen her favorite hair-clip when she was alive; they were all going to die. Every last fucking one of them. Whether it be murder, suicide, or—why not?—both, they'd all meet the same bloody, messy end. Fuck happy endings, fuck closure, fuck peace; kill all the bastards and call it a day.

When he'd finished his latest novel—titled 'Silence', or, as he preferred, '_Everybody_ Fucking Dies in This One'—he powered down the laptop and went to answer the doorbell, which had been ringing for the better part of fifteen minutes. _'It's been a fucking year to the day—don't they see I'd rather be alone?' _But he worded that thought wrong and the lump returned in all of its miserable glory.

He fought for composure; he opened the door to find his sister, Mika, standing there, neither scowl nor smirk to be found on her face—only a frown. Beside her was Tohma and on her right was Tatsuha, all of them standing there with matching frowns. _'The Hell?'_ "Aneki," he greeted, cursing his voice—it cracked, even on that one word. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "The Hell do you want?" Contrary to what he said, there was no heat or anger in his tone. On the last word, his voice cut off completely as he tried valiantly to win the inner war with himself.

He was losing.

They knew what day it was. How they managed to remember, he could probably guess was Mika's fault, but they knew. Mika physically waved aside the words and strode forward, her slender arms softly encircling his waist and her face pressed into his shoulder. "Nii-kun. . ." Just one word; a single word was all she uttered, but a dam broke and he cried then—a monstrous waterfall of tears flowing into his older sister's shoulder. After a while, he found his face buried within her flat, soft stomach, Tatsuha and Tohma on either side of them atop his wraparound couch. His cries wouldn't stop, golden eyes stinging. Her fingers combed through his hair, but he was far from soothed.

"You should've called us, aniki—you know we're always here." The now seventeen-year-old sniffled a little, not feeling the slightest bit odd in attempting to comfort his older brother; he was family.

Tohma rubbed the quivering man's back. He'd never seen Eiri like this, even after Kitazawa. Of course, the writer hadn't even cried at the funeral—perhaps he'd finally snapped out of whatever shock he'd forced himself in. "It . . . it was my fault. . ." Though his voice was muffled, they still heard him and Mika tried to console him further, her mother-instincts taking over completely. "N-not fair . . ."

Was it a curse of the Writer; could no man nor woman who, blessed with the gift of writing, ever be happy?

For a little while there, he'd been happy. He'd had a little slice of Heaven and he'd tossed it away like a fling he'd tired of. Sometimes, around six or eight at night, he found himself staring at the door in a dead stare, as if a tiny, pink bundle would come catapulting through the door and tell him it was all some dream. That everything was as it should be. That Shuichi Shindou, vocalist extraordinaire and lover to the famed Eiri Yuki, would still be there to smile that beautiful smile at him.

He wanted to hear that idle, meaningless chatter that so frequented his home before. Wanted to feel the soft, taut frame against his own in wanton abandon. He longed to see that cherubic face again, glowing and jovial and full of love. Even if just for one more time—one last, shining moment—he wanted to hold that worthwhile creature that had brought a brilliance into his life no other had ever before possessed. He wanted to gaze into amethyst eyes—not a few glistening sheets of Kodak™. On the television, he didn't want every channel taking a few moments of silence in the memory of the legend the pink-haired singer had unknowingly become.

He just wanted his lover back.

Once, long ago, he remembered saying that all he wanted was just a little silence—some godforsaken peace to finish his novel and a break so that he wouldn't be driven insane by the ball of fluff he'd adopted as a boyfriend. A cigarette and beer was all he asked for besides that, but otherwise . . . just silence.

Now, he'd give up anything—including that godforsaken silence—to see that smile just once more time.


End file.
